“But he is sleeping in Grandma's room.”
“Then go wake him up. Tell Grandma or Loan to dress both of you.” She pushed me out of her room and carefully closed the door without touching her nails.
BY THE TIME
Jimmy and I changed into the party clothes that my mother had ordered from the Sears catalog, a luxury that few could afford in Vietnam, the guests had finally arrived. From my grandparents' bedroom, we could hear every noise the people outside made. Gazing at each other nervously, we pressed our ears against the thin wall, listening to the footsteps that ran frantically up and down the hallway. The rich smell of cooked spices mixed with the heavy odor of perfume.
Finally, my mother burst into the room with enough exuberance to burn out a lightbulb. Her off-white evening gown embraced her, gushing down her body like a stream of silver water. Her hair was bound above her neck in a complicated knot, revealing a diamond necklace and two small diamond earrings. She looked foreign, formidable, elegant as an Egyptian queen. She smiled through her makeup, as she reached for us with bare arms that sparkled with diamonds. We entered her cloud of perfume, and together, hand in hand, we walked into the noisy brightness outside.
The rest of the evening is a blur. I vaguely recall the laughter, the kisses, the food, the stark colors, the songs, and the mountain of presents that filled my room. I also remember the foreign guests with sandy hair and blue eyes, as well as the anxious talk on everyone's lips about the revolution. Jimmy and I were sent to bed immediately after I blew out the candles on top of my gigantic cake. And I was to sleep for three years, banished from my mother's warmth and sent away to school, leaving behind the special night that was supposed to be mine.
Nhatrang, March 25, 1975
A
frightening cluster of explosions jolted me out of a deep sleep. I jumped out of bed, dimly aware of my surroundings. Through the window, the sky flickered with faint stars. I wondered if the noises I had just heard were merely a figment of my imagination.
More gunshots rang out, and terror awakened me with full force. I groped for my sandals in the darkness, yelping for my mother. A figure bolted into my room, holding a candle in her hand. It was Loan, my nanny, who at eighteen was also the youngest maid in our house. Her hair was tangled, and sleep hadn't completely washed from her face. In the dimly lit room, she looked bewildered and shaken. I ran toward her to bury myself in her bosom and inhaled the soothing, familiar scent of her body. We huddled together in the middle of the room.
For over a month, gunshots and bombs had been heard all over Nhatrang. Every day the media had delivered more disturbing news, until numbness had infected everyone like a plague. People learned to follow the latest reports with silent and bitter acceptance. Rumors spread wildly throughout Nhatrang, eating through the city like a cancer. Since there were no guards, the prison doors were unlocked; felons trickled out like dirty water, robbing the city mercilessly. No one dared to venture outside. The streets were deserted, except for an occasional fast-moving car. Locked houses attested to their owners' fear. Television brought us scenes of towns near the war zone, where panicked citizens burst from their doors in the middle of night, carrying nothing but their infants. The refugees, with bare feet and empty hands, rushed from one city to the next, running away from the invisible terror, with no idea of where they were going or what they were fleeing. Finding food became a constant worry, since the markets no longer operated regularly. The city was like a fish dying on hard pavement, hopelessly gasping for air.
Like most people in Nhatrang, we had bolted ourselves inside our home and waited for the horror of war to manifest its fury. So far, only some of its impact had torn through the protective shield of the Nguyen mansion. I recall the first and most awful incident that shook my mother's sense of security: the crumbling of her bank. Since 1968, she had been the co-president of a small privately owned bank in Nhatrang. Half of the bank's assets were in her name, and a rich Chinese couple owned the other half. Late one evening my mother received a phone call informing her that her partners were in Thailand and on their way to New York—with all the cash.
The next day she walked into her office to find herself standing in a deserted, garbage-filled wreck. Outside, hundreds of angry customers were screaming her name, as they fought to get through the locked doors. Mere seconds ahead of the mob, my mother exited the bank through an escape door. She was physically unscathed, but this incident nearly destroyed her defiant spirit.
I watched my mother from the balcony of my bedroom as she walked back to the house. One of her shoes was missing, and a blank stare hollowed her face. Lam, her live-in boyfriend—a man ten years her junior—and his friends were sunbathing by the pool when my mother passed by them, lost in her trance. They stared at her until she disappeared in the house. Only when her feet touched the cold tiles in the living room did she collapse in sobbing howls.
An overwhelming despair engulfed me like a black hole. From my second-floor balcony I began to cry with her, only to realize that a much more ferocious noise was drowning out what little sound I made—the boom of angry, explosive weapons. Down the street, a bomb went off, shaking the ground with vicious force. Now, the same unsettling rumble had hurtled me from my bed and into Loan's arms.
Loan carried me downstairs to the living room to look for my mother, who was hosting a party of sorts. In her search for information, she had gathered together the few officials left in Nhatrang. Sitting in a chair, she was dressed humbly in a traditional Vietnamese
ao dai,
a type of dress with a long skirt split to the waist to form two panels and worn over black pants. My mother was about four months along in her pregnancy, and her belly pushed upward beneath the silky fabric of her clothes. She was in the middle of a conversation with Mr. Dang, the chief translator for the U.S. Embassy.
Mr. and Mrs. Dang were among my mother's important allies. Her heart had no room for any relationship stronger than a detached friendship, and she admitted to me on several occasions that this deficiency was innate to her personality—except that, in her own words, it was not a deficiency but a successful adaptation to life. My mother was simply unable to trust anyone but herself.
The relationship between Mr. and Mrs. Dang and my mother was strictly business. Because of his work, Mr. Dang was able to provide my mother with the latest top-secret news about the nation, the markets, and the key people involved, which included everyone at the party. Thus my mother got her news delivered firsthand, firstclass. In return, Mr. Dang got to see the inside of my mother's bedroom, where he was able to confirm that her nightgown fit flawlessly over her shapely body, just as it had been described at the men's mahjong tables.
As for Mrs. Dang, she was always the most significant and interesting guest at any of my mother's gatherings. At that moment, with her half-filled champagne glass positioned dangerously over her large bosom, Mrs. Dang stood a few feet away from her husband, leaning on Lam and another male guest for support. Each time Lam or his friend whispered something in her ear, her exaggerated laughter would break out like shattered glass. Sitting nearby, my mother and Mrs. Dang's husband, lost in their intense conversation, seemed to disregard the tumultuous scene that was happening around them.
“Mommy,” I called out from the door.
My mother excused herself and got up to walk over to us. In Loan's embrace, I could feel the tension shooting through the maid's body as my mother approached. Before Loan could say anything, my mother reached out to snatch me away. With an icy stare, she growled almost inaudibly in the maid's ear, “Get out!” She whirled around and returned to her company, holding me in her arms as though nothing significant had happened.
To Mr. Dang, she said, “I am sorry, my son got frightened.”
“Well, at this point, madam, he is not the only one,” Mr. Dang said with a sigh. “You know, you should get out of here before it is too late.”
“Why? What about the Americans? Aren't they helping us?”
Mr. Dang gave my mother the same look he would give to someone who was crazy or just incredibly stupid. “What do you mean by ‘the Americans’? They left us long ago. We haven't received any help since 1972. We are on our own, and falling fast.”
“But —” my mother stammered, covering my ears with her hands as though to stop both of us from understanding the severity of the situation.
“Exactly my point. You have to get your family out of here soon. The Congs have claimed Qui Nhon City, and Tuy Hoa, too. Only a few short miles through the jungle and they will be here soon.”
My mother uttered a small cry. Her hands tightened around my ears, but I could hear the anguish in her voice as she cried, “Dear God, what should I do?”
“I've told you, madam. All we can do right now is run like the wind. As for my family, we are leaving, early tomorrow morning. I suggest you do the same.”
“Where should I go?”
“Well, first go to Saigon. At least there, you can always leave Vietnam through the main airport. On the other hand, if the political situation ever improves, you can come back to Nhatrang.”
“I have nothing left here to come back to,” my mother said. “I lost my bank and all of my money.”
Mr. Dang shrugged to emphasize his helplessness. “More reason to leave this condemned place. Please, don't forget to keep in touch with us in Saigon. This is the address where we will be staying.” He scribbled on the back of a business card and handed it to her.
THAT NIGHT
, even though several guests were still at the party, my mother sent Lam out to rent a minivan. A large vehicle seemed to be the only way for my mother to transport the six of us, including her boyfriend. The moment Lam came back with the van, we rushed to get inside, carrying only a few necessities. As we followed some of our departing guests down the driveway, not a soul in the house knew of our impetuous plan. Most of the servants were already in bed by the time the party began.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, Loan ran out in front of the van, tearfully begging my mother for permission to come along. For eight years she had been a charming addition to my family, showing kindness to us all, even my mother, who despised anyone beneath her. As long as I could remember, Loan had been one of us.
In her seat, my mother viewed the uncomfortable scene unmoved. However, Loan's cries affected my grandparents, and my grandfather spoke up on her behalf. Confronted with his calm and determined intervention, my mother agreed to take Loan with us.
Once inside, the maid embraced my brother and me tightly. She kissed us with tears on her cheeks before turning to my mother, and bowing down to press her face to my mother's hands. The moment the girl's lips touched her hands, my mother pulled away as if touched by fire. Her face darkened, and her eyes burned at the girl with hatred. With a swift movement that startled everyone, my mother struck a hard blow across Loan's left cheek. The slap sent the girl's head backward to hit the van's steel wall with a cold and hollow noise. Somehow, Loan still managed to keep her head bowed low to the ground.
In the frightful silence, my brother began to cry softly with fear, but no one reached out to comfort him. I was too shocked to utter a sound.
Saigon, April 1975
I
n Saigon we rented a two-story dwelling on a street of Frenchstyle houses. A few blocks away lay the seat of the government, Doc Lap Palace, where all the Vietnamese presidents had lived. Unable to adjust to the foreign environment of this new house, my brother and I ran up and down the stairs, peeking through every room and observing the busy world outside through the cracks of the sealed front windows. Neither one of us fully understood why we ended up there. With the adults in the household lost in their worries, we were free to roam the place.
Saigon was in chaos. Nguyen Van Thieu, the South Vietnam president, unexpectedly quit his term on April 23, 1975. Gathering his personal belongings as well as his assets, he had fled the country. In an attempt to calm the populace, Congress had appointed Tran Van Huong to be the country's new president. He, in turn, set a new record for serving the shortest presidential term in Vietnam's history: four days. On the afternoon of April 27, at the request of Congress, a new president, Duong Van Minh, appeared outside Independence Hall to greet a welcoming crowd. Minh reignited the trust of his people by making lots of exciting promises. However, like the teetering government, his lofty plans eventually crumbled.
Through the adults' conversations, I learned that my mother had taken us to Saigon with the intention of fleeing the country if and when the government failed. In our first few weeks there she established a web of connections and obtained all the necessary passports and airplane tickets so that we could leave anytime we wanted. However, each time we planned on leaving Vietnam, my grandparents refused to join us. In addition, like the new president, Saigon was still deep in denial of the devastation taking place elsewhere in the country. As long as there were still parties and social banquets, there was hope. Each day we said good-bye to some of my mother's friends as they left. To us, the future did not appear so grim, for there were always more planes coming in, and we had our guaranteed seats on them. We remained in the city and waited.
At home, there was an insurmountable tension between my mother and Loan. The maid tried to keep out of my mother's way, but it was an impossible task, because my mother seemed to be all over the place all the time. Without her bank work to keep her busy, she seemed on the verge of a breakdown. Her erratic behavior got even worse after we received a piece of information from back home via my mother's older sister.
My aunt informed us that since the Communists had claimed Nhatrang on April 2, she and her family had been robbed several times at gunpoint. They had decided to leave the Nguyen mansion after thieves desecrated it and took my mother's Mercedes, her jewelry, and some of the hidden cash.